Curtain Call
by westpoints
Summary: complete So...Sharpay and Gabriella both audition for a Broadway musicale, and Gabriella wins the lead part. Gasp! The drama! The suspense! Scheming minds and a snarky narrator star in this wildly unlikely tale of...unlikeliness...Troy Alert!
1. The greatest star

So. This is my promised response to my challenge, in which I experiment with a new style: I've noticed that, in most of my favorite books, the sentences are really, really bad. I mean, absolutely horribly written. But the thing is, when I've read them, I don't really read the sentences, I just let the words sink in and _understand_ what the sentences are trying to say. So, this is a very badly written story meant to be interpreted beautifully.

I have, once again, made no sense. Anyway, I've also incorporated some humor, because I really can't stay away from the stuff, and the thing in which the narrator _knows_ that the story is being read.

Disclaimer: I have way too much fun with this to actually _own_ any part of it.

* * *

The greatest actors and actresses on Broadway aren't the ones you read about in the papers, much. Sure, they get pretty statues and stars on the streets, and they get written up, but when all is said and done, all the general population knows about Broadway acting usually consists of the current movie stars making their forays onto the stage. Gwyneth Paltrow. Julia Roberts. Paul Rudd. Ralph Fiennes. Cynthia Nixon. David Schwimmer. That's enough examples. The funny thing is, none of these celebrities were in musicals. But their presence certainly boosted public interest in Broadway, which was always welcome.

But the _greatest_ players of the stage don't really care about the reviews and the statues or even public recognition. At least, that is the opinion of Sharpay Evans, and she has a right to broadcast that opinion. Right now, she is one of the greatest. Anyway, the _greatest_ players of the stage don't want anything that material. Because they know that if you're good enough, if you're the best for long enough, they won't ever need to write your name down. Because you'll be legend. Katherine Hepburn legend, only on the stage, and more musical.

And so, Sharpay Evans set out after high school to become one of those legends, studying at NYU and trying desperately to land roles. After several years of work, despair, living on celery and peanut butter, she got a call back.

She only made understudy, but her literal foot was in the metaphorical door.

She got more call backs, larger roles, rave reviews. The work did wonders for her temper: Sharpay Evans now gets mad in half the time and twice as violently. She's one of the most feared and most revered leading ladies on Broadway. Ryan is, as he always has been, the other twin, the one who can _dance_. The one who was slightly more sane.

But today, Sharpay Evans was pacing a nice bowl-shape into her hardwood floor. Ryan watched her amusedly from in front of the kitchen sink, eating a cookie. Over the sink. There was no need for words; the twins had gotten past the need for verbal communication.

The reason for such a stressful exercise stemmed from this: Although Broadway consisted of several hundred musicals over the years, only a few had been developed into movies. And those were the ones that drew huge crowds to the theaters of New York. Only about two or three other productions had made pop culture acclaim without the use of the cinema.

Of these select few, Sharpay had starred in _Chicago, RENT, Avenue Q, _and _Wicked_. Today, _Phantom of the Opera_ was being revived (again), and here was the problem: There was only one star. There was only one Christine; the other role went to Carlotta, who, as Sharpay never failed to include in her nervous ramblings, "Isn't even in half the scenes! And she's _fat_!" Whether or not these accusations were true was never debated by any members of her posse, Ryan included.

She'd drawn critical acclaim as Glinda, the good witch. Roxie _and_ Velma. If she lost Mimi, she could at least get Maureen. (Which never happened, but she was comforted by the fact)

So, this morning, simply being the best available right now wasn't enough for her, because if she lost this, it was over. She would end up like Morgan Freemont, who she beat out for the part of Roxie, who couldn't cut it as Velma, who was now pulling off the part of Pegeen in _Mame_. No. No, she wasn't 30 yet, she could do this.

She took one last turn before pausing in front of the full length mirror that hung, strangely, on her refrigerator. She had woken up especially early to achieve the curled bedhead look she worked into her straight hair. And she was finally thin enough to wear white. White was good, white meant innocence, white was Christine's color.

Ryan reached out a hand and brushed her arm. She looked up at him, and smiled, tightly, and he grinned back. He ran her through "All I Ask of You," their agreed-upon practice song because he was going for Raoul. She had the same problem as Emmy Rossum: A good range, but not-so-good control of it. Of course, he didn't point this out to her. The rest of the Broadway population had heard of her audition and knew better than to show up. Nothing could go wrong. Sharpay was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, and Ryan sighed. He'd have to run her through vocal warm-ups _and_ "All I Ask of You" again.

She snapped her fingers continuously as they made their way downstairs, partly to keep the time in her head, partly to summon the ten people from their various apartments who made up her posse.

Today was going to be good. Today was going to go _fine_. Sharpay Evans swept into the theater with the Ice Queen air she had worked so hard to perfect in high school.

But, of course, when people tell themselves that everything will go _fine_, nothing ever goes fine.

* * *

How was my attempt? Hideously bad? Strange? Should I just chop off my hand and leave it here to shrivel?

Eww...

I hope you'll have as much fun reading this as I have had writing it. Maybe it's just me. I had fun adding in references to other works, and if you can find the Friends reference in here, I'll...do something nice. I know _someone_ caught it.

Review! Please? I have all the chapters written.


	2. The freelance writer

31 hits! This is sad. I'm going to go cry now. You know that because of this low count, everyone has to review now.

I think every chapter I have written runs out to about 1.5 pages on Microsoft Word, Times New Roman, 12 pt. Just so's you know. I'm notorious for my short chapters.

Hmm...oh, because I forgot to add something to my explaining of the New Style: Supposedly, if you read the block of words thoroughly, there's always a humorous line somewhere in there. It's a law, apparently. I've always followed the law.

Disclaimer: Not mine

* * *

Because she wasn't quite as colorful as Sharpay Evans, Gabriella Montez didn't require such a preparation for her role that day. Gabriella didn't really expect to ever go into theater again, but her few friends in New York had cajoled her into at least auditioning. Being an up-and-coming freelance writer wasn't really enough to support her life in the Lower East Side; Gabriella didn't really need much persuasion.

_Phantom of the Opera_ didn't register anything in her mind. Even when she'd outgrown her great obsession with science, her pop culture knowledge had not expanded.

She wandered around her tiny studio apartment, trying to delay her trip down to the theater as long as possible.

Unfortunately, there was only so much you can do to a place where the kitchen was in the bathroom.

She shuffled into the theater, wearing jeans and a too-big jacket. A frantic-looking redhead introduced herself as Amanda, the make-up artist who was now doubling as the casting-director. As was required of all people looking frantic, there was a gargantuan amount of paper in front of her. Exactly how much paper was needed for the job of make-up artist was a mystery.

"You must be Gabriella," she said distractedly, pausing only for a second to take in Gabriella's attire. "I knew we shouldn't have held open auditions."

"Um, how did you know my name?"

"Well, you called in to sign up, didn't you?" Amanda shuffled through the pile of papers, though the word 'pile' could no longer apply. Perhaps 'foot deep layer' would be more appropriate.

"But I can't have been the only one..."

"No, you weren't," she snapped. "And that's why I'm about to blow right now." A hint of an English accent tiptoed meekly into her angry voice, Gabriella noticed. "Ah, here." She snatched up a miniscule cell phone and flipped it open, depressed one button, and clutched the thing between her shoulder and ear, now trying to reorder the papers.

"God, where _have _you been, Evey? She'll be here any minute, and you're not here with the coffee! Well, yes, so your roommate cut her palm open with a spatula, tell that to George. No, nothing violent, you'll just spend the rest of your life looking for your left eye!" She dropped the loosely definable pile hopelessly and snapped the phone shut.

"I'm sorry, who will be here any minute?" Amanda flicked an orange lock out of her eyes and regarded Gabriella carefully.

"You poor thing. You really don't know, do you?" The accent had slunk away from her speech now. Gabriella shook her head. "For your sake," she said gently, "I hope you don't get the part."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh dear god," Amanda whispered, her already pale face becoming the nothing color that was whiter than even white. "She's here."

A group of twelve entered the doors. The last three to come in could only be described as such: "They're big. They can talk!" But all the people scurrying around the set had their eyes trained anxiously on the petite blonde in the front, and some on the taller blonde beside her. Amanda cursed, and as the director came by, she plucked the coffee cup from his hand. "Tell me this is a vanilla latte with two shots espresso and no foam," she hissed. Even the director was speechless enough to only nod.

She approached the group tentatively, and offered the cup like a sacrifice. The woman dressed in white took the proffered drink and sipped. Once. Audibly. Behind her, a meek looking girl winced.

"This doesn't taste like fat-free milk," the woman said coldly. Amanda surreptitiously stabbed the director with a finger. The blonde lowered her sunglasses and scrutinized Gabriella. "And what is this?" She slipped the glasses completely off, and Gabriella gasped. And then mentally slapped herself for gasping.

"Sharpay Evans." Sharpay narrowed her eyes, almost acknowledged her former classmate, handed the shades off to who was certainly Ryan in this case, and brushed past Amanda.

"You don't happen to have my _correct_ latte order, do you?" she shot at the speechless writer.

* * *

I'm going to bring in Troy. I am. But he'll be on the side. Maybe featured in two out of 10.

I noticed that a reviewer didn't like the large paragraphs and, while I also don't like reading large blocks of text, I am in the midst of a Terry Pratchett influence, so while this one may have shorter paragraphs, most of my non-dialogue prose will be nicely packed into a box. Sorry. And, also, because I can't resist this dig, the phrase "Makes no since," makes no sense.

No specific references on this one, but I'm pretty sure the spatula line was influenced by _The Devil Wears Prada. _I don't even know where I get my influences from any mroe.

Review!


	3. The something that goes wrong

Originally, I wasn't going to put up an actual audition chapter. But, because I got the opening idea stuck in my head, this was born. HOWEVER, I didn't want to put in the lyrics because that just seems to chop up the prose too much, so any reference to the songs from here on in will require cogitation on your part. You should have been cogitating long before this, but this is just a general warning.

COGITATE.

The next few chapters aren't my favorite. But, they need to be there, so...proceed with caution. Oh yes: I know next to nothing about the theater process. I'm taking my cues from my experience in my shcool musicales. So, the few times I do mention technical aspects of the musical, remember that I'm only using the amount of knowledge I've amassed from high school and the internets. I'm making excuses for my ignorance, I know.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

It's well known in the professional world of anything that the _best_ people at their professions can detect something going wrong long before even the most sensitive machines can pick it up. While there are no seismographs in the world of theater, people like Ryan and Sharpay...excuse me, Sharpay and Ryan Evans can act the part with _extreme_ precision.

"It was the milk, I swear, something isn't going to go well," Sharpay whispered to her brother, who stood calmly beside her, having nailed his audition for Raoul. With the delicacy of a fine watchmaker, Ryan flicked some imaginary lint off her dress.

"You're going to do _fine_," he said.

Amanda looked up from her notes, where she was most likely writing _something_ important. Certainly not total costs for Phantom make-up.

"Shirley? Right, Shirley. You're up. You're singing Christine, right?" A short brunette, who put people in the mind of a dandelion with all the spores attached, stood and nodded. There were a few seconds of silence. Then: "Well? Get up there."

As Shirley made her way noisily onstage, Amanda cast a nervous look over at Gabriella, who seemed to be perfectly calm. This kid was looking for a death wish.

"If you could just sing the last few lines of 'Think of Me,' please?"

"Uh, well, actually—"

"The end of 'Think of Me,' is rather difficult, which is why we're using it. Please." Amanda gestured at the pianist, and steeled herself for the greatest maiming of a song since...well, since something horrific.

She uncringed her muscles a few minutes later, and looked at the apprehensive girl onstage. "Um. Perhaps you should try for something less...opera-like. May I suggest _Mame_? Next! Gabriella Montez?"

Sharpay started tapping her feet. "You know," Ryan said, "She could just screw up completely. Sing off key. Pull a Janet Jackson."

"Janet Jackson had Justin Timberlake to help her."

"Oh. Right. Well, she could just...do something."

It was a passable performance. She managed to nail the right notes, but it was obvious that Gabriella was about to collapse mentally from nerves.

"Good. Next! Miss...Sharpay Evans." Sharpay smirked as Gabriella wobbled off stage.

"Nice, Montez," she hissed. She flipped her hair triumphantly as she progressed backstage.

"Miss Evans," Amanda protested. "Miss Evans, the audition is held _on_stage...oh, well, I suppose...I'll just watch..." Sharpay disappeared behind the curtain with Ryan.

"You can do this. She only said 'good.' That's it. You can do _awesome_. You know it." He ran her through the trilling and the breathing and the first note. "Come on."

It started out fine. It really did. But, as the _best_ professional in the room, she could detect the small shift in the gears long before anyone else could hear it. But she didn't know that no one else could hear it.

The ending. The ending loomed, and she could feel it, it was welling up, threatening to come out if she didn't contain it, her breath was running out, but you can't breathe at the end, you have to _legato_ them, and her head was pounding, because here it was, here was the last few notes, she could hold it, it wouldn't come up, it wouldn't...

To say that she let out the famous "co-oack" of Carlotta would be dramatically ironic and humorous. It would also be wrong, and if Sharpay caught anyone saying that it happened, she will personally knot his arms behind his head and then shred his ears to ribbons. And then break his toes.

To say that she hit the note, wavering a little, and with a slightly pained expression on her face would be accurate. She ended, took a deep breath away from the mike, and looked expectantly at wherever Amanda happened to be. Damn lights on the stage.

A thin clap radiated from the rows, and she was duly satisfied.

"Um. That was wonderful, Sharpay. We'll be looking for you when callbacks come around," came the disembodied voice.

It was fine. It was _fine_. Ryan received her with a smile, and he even _told_ her she was _fine_. A small tremor ran through her body, leaving small track marks, the after effects of her near-meltdown.

She accidentally broke a man's toes on her way home, Ryan and others in tow. Well, her heel dug into the toe of his shoe, but that was because he got in the way. It didn't matter, though, because she was _fine. _But, from deep within the theater, the Evans twins could hear the clicking. Something was going wrong.

* * *

You all know what the results of the auditions, so...

Just review!


	4. The scheming minds

All right. Either everyone hates me, or...everyone hates me. Thanks guys. Anyway, I'm posting for me. Because I'm self-centered that way.

Love all.

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me.

* * *

Once again, Sharpay was pacing a bowl into her hardwood floor, Ryan watching her worriedly from the doorway. There were no doors, only tastefully rectangular holes in the walls.

"Callback? Fine. Second callback? Fine. Lead role!" she screeched. Ryan wrinkled his nose as her voice caused dogs in Rhode Island to go deaf. "They said I could either take the understudy role, or I could take Carlotta. Carlotta isn't even in half the scenes! And she's _fat_!"

She eyed herself critically in her fridge mirror. "I'm not!" Despite the fact that she was obsessed with her weight, Sharpay still possessed a healthy amount of good self-esteem.

"And I can't even slap her! If I did, then I'd be pegged as a sore loser, which, of all things, I am _not_!" Ryan opened his mouth. "Don't say it! You know what they said, though? They were too scared to tell me that they just wanted homegirl over me. They said I had the _personality _of Carlotta down anyway! As though I had no ability to act nice at all! I played freaking _Sandy_, from _Grease_ didn't I?

"You know that the original Christine had blond hair? Blond, _straight_ hair! Imagine all the time they _won't_ have to spend on make-up to make me look French. But then Sarah Brightman came along, and every Christine after that was a brunette, including movie Christine, and Gaston Leroux is _crying_ up in heaven!"

In actuality, Gaston Leroux was having a nice time drinking red wine and talking about how he came up with the premise for _The Yellow Room_, but...

"Well, at least you got Raoul." Ryan looked smug, now that the topic turned to something he knew about. "_And_ you didn't do the jazz square. Very good. I supposed it's too much to ask for you to really break her leg."

"Michael will have to do that." Michael McKinley, one of the Evans's few true friends, had managed to snag the part of Erik. She kept pacing, her mouth working silently. After a few false starts, she managed to burst,

"See, Ryan? I told you we shouldn't have been so nice to her after the musicale!" He didn't bother to point out that it was _her_ idea to be so hospitable. "And we can't even pass her on to something else! She's a _freelancer_ now."

"And she looks like one."

"Oh I know. Did you see what she wore on the first day? Ugh." Sharpay suddenly stopped mid-spin and set both feet on the floor definitely. "You know what we need?"

"More cookies?" She snatched the baked good out of his hand.

"Ryan! Meredith just made those! And you're _crumbing_!" Meredith was the meek looking girl. She made killer cookies. If you ate one of these slices of heaven, you'd be prepared to commit genocide in order to get another taste. They were banned in 48 states, not because they were a satisfying treat, but because they were being cited as motive for murder.

Ryan almost protested against _Sharpay_ as she threatened to drop the cookie into the trashcan. "Over the sink," she demanded, and he complied.

"_No_," she said, continuing on her former path. "We need to...we need a way to just..." She made a motion that mirrored tambourine shaking. Or, as Ryan realized later, breaking a stick fifty times very, very quickly. "...break her." An idea occurred to both of them.

"That would never work," said Ryan. "Whenever you read about these things, they _never_ work."

"That's because if it does work, nobody knows about it. If we could just...scare her? Stress her out? Distract. Yeah, if we could just distract her and keep her from doing anything right...And just...make her screw up...so badly, that they can't possibly keep her. It really would be too much to enlist our own Phantom."

"Haha, yeah." Sharpay paused to think again. And then her finger was waving in the air again.

"We don't really need a Phantom. We just need a guy."

"Yeah, but what guy would..." She looked up and he met her eyes.

As many movies are wont to illustrate, the twin telepathy idea presented itself by having the pair say the same thing at the same time.

"Troy Bolton."

* * *

This will be a really stupid scheme. But because this is my version of satire, it's allowed to be stupid. I'm acknowledging the stupidity so that you won't point it out, should you EVER review.

Okay. Uhm. There are two more chapters that feature a lot of Troy, which I don't really like (Because of the way the story goes, not because Troy's in them), but after that it's fun! FUN!

But anyway. review.


	5. The lemminglike confrontation

Ah...my influences...here, um...actually, very little. I came up with all of these long winded sentences and speeches. Wow. Oh, but there's touch of _Sin City_, but only if you really look for it. And, of course, _Devil Wears Prada_ gets a nice mention.

Oh, right. **Sehila, **sorry about the speech tags. I edited the long paragraphs before I posted, and forgot about them. They are back in this one, though!

This was actually the first chapter I wrote. It was delicious.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

Sharpay Evans was a manipulative genius. Sharpay Evans was infamous for her vitriolic remarks. Sharpay Evans had an entourage that, of course, included the heavily muscled 'friends' who were stationed there for the sole purpose of scaring underlings. Sharpay Evans was a force to be reckoned with, even if reckoning was rare these days. The last time someone pissed off Sharpay Evans, his head was shoved into the toilet. Before he flushed.

All these things ran through Gabriella's head, but didn't seem to register before her mouth opened, and she heard, to her horror, her own voice asking the everlastingly _stupid_ juvenile question: "Why are you so mean?"

Sharpay Evans blinked, once. It was not a "What the Hell?" blink disguised as "Oh dear, there seems to be a little something digging holes in my eyeball." It was a "You did hear those words that came out of your mouth, didn't you," sort of blink. And Gabriella, for an instant, was scared.

"Gabriella," she said in a terrifyingly calm voice, "I have been part of the show business since I was five. You dabbled, _once_, in high school, stole my lead, and then dumped chili fries on me. I do this for a living. Your friends thought it would be a great! idea for you to at least sign up.

"The question you should have asked, Gabriella, is not 'Why are you so mean?' but 'Why do I insist on ruining people's lives on a daily basis?' To which I would have answered, 'Aw, it's okay. You can't help the fact that the only reason you're alive is to annoy the hell out of everyone.' And then I would have given you an almost-friendly pat on the cheek and sent you off to a nice therapist."

Despite the fact that almost _none_ of Sharpay's speech made sense, Gabriella could physically feel her ego being ground up like pepper and sprinkled over Caesar salad.

A terrible compulsion seized her tongue, and she found herself retorting, "That's not nice! You're just mad because I got your lead again, and I've only done this once!" Oh god, she did say that. She almost screamed at Sharpay's singular blink.

She just committed suicide. If she were to compare herself to an animal right now, she would be very much like a lemming. Well, actually, lemmings did not commit suicide, it was just a misconception hammered home by a Disney—WHY was she thinking about that and not how to run away while retaining most of her limbs?

"I'm going to say this, and I'm only going to say this once, Gabriella. The next time you want to say that you're better than me...at least at this, remember: I am a diva. I am the best Broadway actress out there right now. You are a freelance writer. You sit alone in your sad little apartment, dressed in...a ratty sweatshirt and Paul Frank pajama pants, drinking weak coffee and eating Ramen. You have not gotten my lead. You will never get my lead." The very, very sad part was that Sharpay was dead-on in her estimation of Gabriella's life.

"You're just jealous!" How? How did her foot get so far down her throat she was choking on her kneecap?

"If I was jealous," Sharpay said perkily, "You would be hopping away with your left leg in your hands. You're a smart girl. You can figure out how that would come about." She snapped, and the rest of her posse turned with her as she walked away from Gabriella Montez and out the door.

"Oh cheer up," a voice said at her ear. She turned quickly and almost ran into Amanda. "Be glad she only threatened. Sharpay Evans may just look like a tough talker, but underneath those pretty nails is a fist _waiting_ to dish out black eyes."

"I know. I took her role in high school," she replied, as though it carried some weight with someone who had worked with Sharpay for the last five years.

"You lemming."

"No, actually, lemmings—"

"I know, I know. You think you're the only one with brains around here?" Amanda's gaze extended past the doors until she suddenly realized that no, Gabriella had not left. "Look. Evans is a pain in the ass, but she _is_ the best Broadway actress around, and she has the diva...air. There's nothing more we'd like to see than her falling. But at the same time, we need someone like her around. Keeps the whole thing...operatic. She was made for Miranda Priestly. When we're not busy hating her, we admire her. You were made for Andy Sachs."

At Gabriella's puzzled face, Amanda sighed. "_The Devil Wears Prada_. For a freelancer, you don't read much. Anyway, Andy gets a job that she's never been interested in to begin with. She leaves. Miranda's the boss who might get toppled off her perch at any point. She wins and keeps her job. That's the difference between the two of you."

"What?" Gabriella was mesmerized by Amanda, who, like Sharpay, was able to say a lot of words and not mean anything at all.

"That you don't belong here, and you don't really want to. Sharpay was born here, and she'd die without it. The sooner you learn how to live with that kind of dependency from her, the better." Gabriella narrowed her eyes, and said, in another display of verbal stupidity, "I'm gonna teach her a lesson." Amanda snorted.

"You do that, kid. But you know what will really bring her down? You working your ass off and bringing the house down opening night. That's what'll get her." The redhead raised an eyebrow. "You think you're up for it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," Gabriella said defiantly.

"No, you're not." She blinked, in a serious "whatdaya mean I'm not?" kind of way.

Amanda grinned, and if she had more height and the right teeth, it would be a shark-like grin. "But you will be. You have to be."

* * *

Ah, the blinks. That's actually a thing of mine. I convey my subtle vitriolic remarks in my blinks. I've made people cry when I have stuff in my eye and they think I'm tearing them to shreds and I'm actually trying to dislodge a flying piece of razor blade.

Actually, that last sentence hasn't happened yet. But the bit about the lemmings in here is true. They really aren't suicidal. Which is kinda disappointing, in a morbid way.

Anyway. Troy's in the next two. Tell all your friends.

But not before you review.


	6. The stupid part

Here's the really sad scheme. Have a party. Troy alert!

Dialogue tags are gone for this chap, because...well, they're really obvious.

Disclaimer: Not mine at all.

* * *

It was a rule of scheming that making the scheme obvious was stupid and only happened in comedic situations, which Sharpay looked haughtily down on. Therefore, the requisite secrecy resulted in bringing Troy Bolton, now an age group basketball coach, to New York through a system that would make a high school grapevine look like a bean sprout.

So, when Gabriella was called one rainy day, not long into rehearsals, neither the caller nor the callee knew how much the telephone call meant to a pair of twins several blocks away. The twins were indulging in a mud spa, but it would have delighted them, had they known about it.

"Hello?"

"Gabriella?"

"Who's this?"

"It's Troy! Troy Bolton, from high school?"

"Oh hey! Why are you calling me?"

"Well, I was in New York with a few buddies and I saw the promotional posters for..._Ghost of the Playwright_, I think it was called."

"Very funny."

"Thank you. No, but really, I saw your name on the posters for _Phantom of the Opera_, so I thought I'd look you up, see if you were the same girl from Albuquerque, see how you were doing."

"Well, I'm doing all right."

"Doing all right? Gabi, you're _Christine_!"

"Yeah, well...You know how Ryan Evans is Raoul."

"Don't remember."

"Raoul. Um. Okay, well Ryan _Evans_. You remember."

"I've known thousands of Evans's in my life."

"Sharpay is my understudy."

"Oh. Really."

"Yeah. And this was my first time auditioning for a Broadway role and all..."

"I bet she's mad."

"You're telling me."

"You know, I'd like to see you. Want to meet up for dinner this week, catch up on old times?"

"Um. Yeah, sure! How about after rehearsal one day? We're just fitting for costumes right now and doing table readings, anyway."

"Sounds great."

Now would be an excellent time to explain Sharpay's plan to those of the Ryan type of thinking.

Back in high school, after the musical, it was obvious that Gabriella was suffering a bout of unrequited love. While Troy really did enjoy doing the production with her and singing and dancing and other sorts of prancing around, he wasn't interested. As such. Even during the performances, Sharpay could see the girl getting distracted by Troy's presence.

The thing with people like Gabriella, Sharpay knew, was that while they got over people like Troy, they never quite forgot. And she knew that Troy would at least be _interested_ in knowing how an old friend had gotten along after graduation. And she knew that people like Gabriella gave lackluster performances when they were distracted by people like Troy. And that would give her the chance to shine, the chance to take over from the girl who had the _idiocy_ to steal her part.

But the thing with people like Troy, that she didn't know, was that they would have gladly committed to people like Gabriella if it weren't for people like Sharpay.

* * *

Yes. Very, very sad. But it's mine! All mine! I claim all very stupid schemes for myself.

Review. Do it, do it now.


	7. The generic falling apart of scheming

Aw, you guys are awesome. I know how much of an effort it takes to review every chapter. I rarely do it, myself. Thanks.

Ah, well, the beginning of this started out funny and towards the end I got a litte...philisophical. Yeah-no. Troy alert!

Disclaimer: As per usual, I never get anything for my birthday. Not even HSM. It's not my birthday, either! Life's not fair!

* * *

There were successful dates. Then there were pleasant dates. Then there were okay dates, which were pleasant with no breath mints. Then there were awkward dates, where the two parties, who knew each other in high school and hung out together as friends, met up and realized that their relationship had not, and would never, change.

Well, maybe awkward dates could also include those between an ax murderer and a poet. However, Gabriella was not an ax murderer, and Troy was far from a poet, so that was that.

It might have been because, at the end of the night, he asked her "How are things between you and Sharpay?" And she realized what he never even considered once, because if he'd ever considered it, he wouldn't have done this. She didn't tell him, of course. _That_ would have been hurtful.

Either way, the dinner was not a good one, but Troy was too nice, and Gabriella a little too timid, to create a clean break. She invited him to come to the theater during rehearsals a few times, meet the crew, have a chitchat! Why? Because she was a masochist and liked watching her high school crush have no idea that he was in love with her mortal enemy.

What _did _serve as a source of endless entertainment for her those days, strangely, _was_ the interaction between Sharpay and Troy.

Because when Troy tried to talk to everyone—and while the majority offered some sort of conversational kindling—Sharpay turned coldly. It puzzled him, Gabriella could tell, because in high school, the blonde had thrown herself at the basketball star, and now she was...being cold...Gabriella sighed at her failing supply of words that also meant "cold."

Even better, though, were the looks Sharpay shot her during rehearsals, as though she was waiting for something to go wrong, and she knew that Amanda was right.

Sharpay was wilting. She was snapping, and even Ryan had given up on placating her ill temper. Once she got a taste, she couldn't live outside the spotlight again. What she should have done, Gabriella mused, was just look to the right every now and then and see just how much of a _single-minded_ spotlight was shining on her. No one ever reports their classmates for being creepy, but Sharpay could make a plausible case.

But what was even _better_ was the frustrated face Sharpay _always_ made when Gabriella did a scene well, and the way she turned to the first person to complain about something (her nails, the lighting, how the Earth was going to crash into a fiery demise in five billion years...), and how the first person was...Troy.

She shared this revelation with Ryan in between their scenes together. He told her that he wouldn't be surprised if the two ended up killing each other or having angry sex. Sharpay's plan had backfired, and Ryan knew. Well, he hadn't pointed it out to Sharpay yet, but that was all nitpicky detail.

Gabriella took the opportunity to pose this question, in a less stupid sounding way: "Why is Sharpay so mean? I mean...has she always been this way? I don't get it."

"It's who she is."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the best answer I can give you." Gabriella sent him a questioning look, her eyebrows raised, asking for him to go on. "Look, it's not like she was any different at home. Mom and Dad got used to it."

"What about you? Why do you follow her?"

"I've gotten used to it, too. And besides, in this world, where all you can be is selfish, it's best to keep with someone who won't someday be your competition. Ruins everything. Sharpay's not that bad. You just...you have to prove that you're going to help _her_. If you won't help _her_ in _her_ life, you're going to at least...stop her? Be a problem?"

"Hinder?"

"Yeah. Hinder her."

"That's a stupid philosophy." Ryan smiled.

"Look at yourself."

* * *

I think this is the last we'll see of Troy for a litte bit. Obviously, I've skipped through the stupider parts of the sheme because I hate doing moment-by-moment stories. Elllgh.

As you can probably tell, I also hate the idea of Sharpay being actually nice. Mean people don't _always_ have a deep dark secret that they have to hide under a mask of rapier wit. As a matter of fact, I do it becaus some of the more annoying people around me deserve to get knocked out of the way every now and then.

Oo, but the best chapters are coming up! At least, my favorite chapters are coming up.

Review!


	8. The Catastrophe Curve

I apologize for the obscene amount of time in between updates. I made the (rather stupid) decision to do Cross Country this year, in 5000 degree weather, and I'm almost about to collapse. Sorry about that.

Anyway. Ahhhhh...Oh how I love Terry Pratchett. The majority of this was influenced by _Maskerade_, which, incidentally, was based on _The Phantom of the Opera_. If you want me to love you forever, then read _Maskerade_. Yes, this is one of my favorite chapters.

Disclaimer: Natch on mine. The Catastrophe Curve is mostly Terry Pratchett's.

* * *

It is the opinion of many theater dilettantes that the theater, particularly the area of musicals, operates on a Catastrophe Curve. The Catastrophe Curve is _not_ the particularly sharp turn on a mountain side that Grace Kelly so ungracefully drove off, thereby nullifying her namesake. That's _not _what it is.

The Catastrophe Curve consists of all the components of the production being pushed to their limits constantly, put together under the unfaltering certainty that on opening night, the large number of variables will amazingly _fail to go wrong_.

It is the opinion of many theater fanatics that...well, that the theater dilettantes were right.

Three weeks from opening night, _The Phantom of the Opera_ was about to fall off its curve:

**Gabriella**'s tightly wound nerves were, for now, giving her a good run. Amanda's weekly pep talks, whispered in a furious pace every Monday morning just before Sharpay made her entrance, did wonders. That, and the fact that she got the bigger dressing room even when Sharpay was the diva. But she couldn't do her scenes with Michael. That was the tiny, tiny thorn that was threateningly close to the overblown balloon.

**Sharpay Evans** was not about to crack. She was not about to fall off the curve. She had decided that being the understudy was better than being Carlotta. Who wasn't even in half the scenes, and was fat, anyway. She could _not_ afford to fall off the curve. What was keeping her held together was the _Pajama Game_ next season, and she _knew_ she had that. It was more her par than _Phantom_, anyway.

Yes, she was rationalizing, but it was the only thing that made sense now, besides the fact that her brother was obviously better than Gabriella on stage. If she was in high school, she'd go for a hit of Troy Bolton. But now that Troy was at her disposal for anything, it didn't really matter. _Right now_, she would be happy for just a hit. Of anything. Even a hammer. Provided, of course she was the one holding it.

**Michael McKinley** was in fact, perfectly under control. The only issue was, the girl kept faltering in his scenes, and since almost _all_ his scenes included her, he was about to push her off the stage and break her leg. That was an exaggeration, but not much of one. He wanted Sharpay. He _needed _Sharpay, and if opening night came and Montez cracked, he just might cry. Of course, being the Phantom, he was allowed to cry. Maybe he could go into hysterics and demand Sharpay as a replacement.

**Amanda** was close to mental collapse. It wasn't the actors, which would usually be the most of her concerns right now, as the head make-up artist. It wasn't the low-running supply of eyeliner, which she had been keeping tabs on, honestly, didn't know how it got that low, and god knows, she can't order more greasepaint _now_, you can't very well use _new _greasepaint on opening night. It wasn't even the astounding hours she was keeping, which ran into 18 on good days.

It was the actors _and_ the lack of eyeliner _and_ the ridiculous schedule _and_ the fact that it wasn't Sharpay Evans's fault at all. It was Gabriella's constant fudging of lines.

Oh, the kid could sing, but she just would not deliver in the last few scenes, and of _course_ they had to do dress rehearsals now, Montez had to get _used_ to the idea of performing, so they had to keep the make-up fresh, and it was already hard enough trying to tone down her genetically encoded tan, but when you've stayed awake for two days straight, living on the stray cup of coffee that Evey managed to get you, in between her errands for the rest of the cast and crew, you really, _really_ wanted to break someone's jaw.

**Ryan** was happy. He was eating the rest of the cookies, the latest batch turned out by Meredith, Sharpay's ever-present pastry-chef-who-also-baked. Considering the fact that he played a wuss who walked around, looked pretty, and waved his sword, he was actually a little too stressed for a person of his caliber in this role. Several people were close to contaminating his lunch with Texas Pete.

**Peter**, the main stagehand, was looking longingly at his full bottle of Acid Rain, wishing he could dump it in someone's food and watch in juvenile amusement. The only reason he allowed himself such leisure right now was because he believed in the Catastrophe Curve, in the most stupidly optimistic way. What he _should _have been working on was the rigging of the famous chandelier.

Oh, there was no problem with it dropping. There was a slight issue with getting it back up. It wouldn't. For some reason, the problem was more harrowing for the director than for the stagehand. Maybe because all Peter had to do was re-oil the pulleys. The director did not know this.

**Jordan**, the sound operator, was less indulgent in his leisure time. The mikes were working _fine_ last week, but right now had a habit of clicking at the most inopportune moments. Only half of the mikes did this at any given time, and...

...here was the dramatic literary kicker that would probably translate better on screen...

..._it was never the same ones_. He sighed and started mike checks for the fifth time that morning. Dammit, it was _going_ to work! They couldn't afford to have a rendition of _Riverdance_ in the middle of "Masquerade." Just wouldn't work out. None of the actors could clog, anyway.

**To go** through the rest of the cast and crew that you don't even know would be rather tiring and a little exhausting on my part. It was safe to say, however, that the people involved with the production were either outrageously relaxed, about to be sent away with helmets, or in _serious_ self-denial about their need for some Valium.

Now, all that could have been said at the beginning of this, but where would the suspense be? The dramatic effect? That's right. In the huge bowl of ice cream you could have eaten instead of reading this. Geez, now you're distracted by ice cream. You don't deserve to be on any Catastrophe Curve, much less treated to a narrative version of it.

Anyway.

The thing about everything turning out _fine_ is that if enough people hope that they do, the chances of everything going _fine_ are pretty much secured. The thing about _this _production, however, was that the definition of _fine_ was a little more varied.

* * *

Ah, the _Riverdance_. It's not clogging, it's actually Irish step dancing. Tapdancing with higher heels and straight posture. Looks freaking awesome. Watch the Jean Butler version, she's one of the best. And Colin Dunne; I like him better than Michael Flatley.

I'm rambling.

Review.


	9. The superstitions start laying on

Mm, another one of my favorites. I actually went to go see Macbeth this weekend, and it wasn't that bad. Considering the horrible stage fighting. This might take a little extra knowledge of theater to get, and I'll try to explain what I didn't in the chapter at the end. I'll just save the rest of my rambling for then, okay?

Oh, yes. **turboman, **you write great stories, too. I'm still waiting for an update on Two Sharpays. **Prongs**, _Riverdance_ is pretty cool, you have to admit. And yes, I knew exactly what you were talking about on ABC.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

The popular simile goes "superstitious as sailors." This is a very good simile, in the same vein as "dead as a doornail," in that they both have inherent flaws. There are plenty of nails deader than that of a door. Perhaps a floor nail, or, most certainly, a coffin nail. In the same spirit, there are groups more superstitious than sailors, and the _most_ superstitious lot is...well, you'd know by now. It's that of the theater.

And one of the _worst_ transgressions you can perform in the world of theater is the uttering of "Macbeth" at any point. There's no point in speculating on what happens _if _someone says it, because no one would _ever_ let the word pass his lips, and there's no point in coming up with a punishment for a crime, if the crime would never be committed, anyway.

Apparently, the play _Macbeth_ has been plagued with bad luck ever since it was first performed by Shakespeare and his players. Deaths. Accidents. Freak accidents, which were different from accidents in that they usually involved weapons of a humorous nature. Like sporks. To even think about the Scottish play would cause infinitely horrible things to occur.

For this reason, Sharpay Evans paced backstage, the night before opening night, muttering said accursed word under her breath. The obviously appropriate word would be "rhubarb," but she was in a particularly vengeful mood. Opening night was tomorrow, and unfortunately, nothing horrible had befallen Gabriella.

Of course, this was not always a good thing, because while nothing _violent_ had befallen Gabriella, she was _still_ fudging a line or two in her Phantom scenes, and the look on Michael's carefully made-up face every time she stuttered was...heartbreaking? If her heart was far enough into their pseudo-relationship, it would be heartbreaking. Now, it was just hurtful.

Ryan slipped up next to Sharpay. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Rhubarb?" she said loudly. Gabi jumped and promptly missed her cue.

"Again," the director sighed. "And this time, Miss Montez, doing the scene _correctly_ would be preferable. We're not going any where until you get it right."

"Aren't you supposed to be rehearsing with them?" Sharpay hissed to Ryan.

"I'm in the background struggling against a rope. All I have to do right now is sing. We're running low on eye-liner; they can't afford to waste anymore than they have to. Besides, I'm not important at this point," he whispered back. Sharpay nodded and resumed her fervent muttering. On stage, the ending scenes were being rehearsed. Again.

"Pit—"

"_CUT_." He didn't have to point out what went wrong there. Gabriella had started too low in pitch.

"Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Mac—Oh, my God," Sharpay said explosively as Gabriella once again began too low. She strode onstage and positioned the bewildered woman beside her. "Look. You start like _this_—

_Pitiful creature of darkness_

_What kind of life have you known?_

_God gave me courage to show you..._

_You are not alone_

"And then you slip on the ring," she went on, snatching the ring from Gabriella and pushing it on her own hand, "And then you _kiss_ him, like _this_—" There's no point in describing the kiss between her and Michael. There aren't enough synonyms for "passionate."

They broke off, and, after catching her breath, Sharpay glared over her shoulder at Gabriella. "Do you _think_ you can manage that?" Gabriella nodded timidly. "Then _do_ it."

She stalked back to her pacing position, and listened with self-loathing as her role-stealer finished the scene _perfectly_. She'd better be listed on the bill, too. Preferably _above_ Gabriella's name. After all, without her, they would be here for another five hours, and she couldn't pace for that long.

"Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth." That wasn't enough bad luck, she thought vehemently. Maybe live flowers. No.

Perhaps sitting under a ladder and breaking mirrors.

Where the Hell are the freaking ladders?

* * *

Influences: Dickens for the nail. My stint as prop manager for _Bye Bye Birdie_ in high school. And, strangely, the _making of_ featurette on the _Roman Holiday_ DVD. Yes, I'm a dork; I watch _Making of's_.

Hmmm...I was always of the opinion that Sharpay would do anything for a production, no matter how much she hates what she does. She's dependent like that, but at the same time can't BELIEVE she just helped Gabriella. Somehow, though, selfishness will win out in the end. The most successful of all people are usually quite selfish.

Oh, right. "Rhubarb" was the word that we used in _Bye Bye Birdie_ when, as background, we were supposed to look like we were saying meaningful things while the main person sang or speeched or whatever. Live flowers are bad luck. And usually, the night before opening night, the philosophy is "Do it until it's right." Nobody goes home until then. Probably because you don't have an extra day to iron out the faltering stuff.

Ack, but this is a turning point for you. Will Gabriella pull off opening night, like Amanda wants her to? Or will she collapse and have Sharpay replace her during Intermission? I'm really open to either choice, I have the possibilities outlined in my head. Wow. Long note

Ehm. Review.


	10. The opening night drama

Ahhh...I assumed that, since most of you are probably Sharpay fans, this will make you happy.

**Moofoot**: Yes, you caught the obsessive neatness. It was actually the cookie over the sink line, which I'm pretty sure was in an episode. I REMEMBER THE BYE BYE BIRDIE ONE! And then Rachel went up and drew a bean, and everyone got it. I think that's the episode you're talking about. **Prongs**, unfortunately, I haven't gotten around to reading the Unfortunate Events, so...um...thanks? I heard it's a great series.

* * *

Theater is not like Tinker Bell.

Well, obviously it's not a blond fairy running around in a skimpy green dress, sometimes adorning antique Absinthe bottles. But, on a more subtle level, it's not "If the audience claps, then it'll go great!" If the actors look like they're enjoying themselves, the chances are something unfortunate happened to another cast member a few hours before the curtain went up, and they're _finally_ able to dispel that humorous energy. Not because they're hoping that the audience will also have a good time.

The audience pays 120 dollars to see this. They're obligated, at least to themselves, to have fun.

That being said, if the actors look _desperately_ happy, then the audience will probably catch onto that, and spend more time searching for the source of disparity than watching the actual production.

Unfortunately, in this case, while the first act of _The Phantom of the Opera _went off beautifully on opening night, even the fog machine boy knew something was up. Sharpay Evans's ears were ringing with possibly good news. Of course, it would only be good from where she stood.

"Sharpay! Sharpay, you have to go on!" Gabriella stumbled into her dressing room. The blonde looked up happily, and quickly slipped a demeanor of concern over her face.

"What are you talking about? You sound great out there! You know, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought that you were _actually_ in love with Michael! And Ryan!" She smirked as Gabriella squirmed. Perhaps, Sharpay thought, she shouldn't have looked through the curtain at the audience. Bad for the nerves.

"Sharpay, you _have_ to go on after Intermission. Sharpay," she pleaded, pulling the lace of her "All I Ask of You" costume down to reveal her neck. "Sharpay, please..."

"Oh my god. Ugh, what do you have?"

"It's hives, Sharpay, I'm too nervous to do this; you remember what happened on _Twinkle Town_, right?"

"Well, you almost cried, but..."

"This is in front of people!"

"...As opposed to _Twinkle Town_. Where you performed in front of tissue boxes and cardboard tubes," the blonde said wryly.

"_Lots_ of people!" Sharpay paused for a second, allowing anyone who might be watching a chance to think that maybe she wasn't going to jump at the chance because she was a Nice Person. Maybe she'll give Gabriella a nice talking to and send the poor girl back on stage.

"Fine," she resigned, doing a Happy Dance on the inside. And some on the outside, but she passed that off as nerves. "Fine, I'll do it. Where's the director?"

She passed Amanda in the corridor in her search for said man. Amanda was slumped against the wall, shaking her head in disappointment and a bit of relief.

"Hey. You. Me. Make-up. Two minutes," Sharpay snapped.

"But Michael—"

"You have assistants, don't you?"

"Well—"

"_Then let them handle him. _I've got a face to put on, you know." As she stalked away, she could hear Amanda drag Gabriella out of her dressing room and demand of her just what the Hell was going on.

The same conversations were going on when the announcement was made that the understudy was taking over on _opening night_. Everywhere, the couples debated the same thing. Well yes, honey, it _was_ Sharpay Evans, but there was a reason this Montez girl got lead, right? Maybe she was having a bad night, needed back-up. Honey, casting directors _don't make mistakes_. Well, they do—I hate your mom! Shut up, the lights are dimming!

Clapping doesn't usually resurrect a production like it does Tinker Bell, but it would do wonders for Sharpay Evans and her ever-rising mood, which was why she was so giddily happy when she floated off stage after the curtain call.

* * *

All right, I had to make a compromise, because I wanted Gabriella to pull through, but I really wanted to use the "Tissue boxes and cardboard tubes" line. So. If you've read all my notes, then you know that I actually just went with the second option. Sorry, People Who Like Realistic Endings. I usually go for them, too, but hey. Tissue boxes and cardboard tubes!

Hmm..._Moulin Rouge_ was part of my inspiration, along with Daniel Tosh, _Dancing on Dangerous Ground_ and its _Making of_.

There will be one more chapter, which will feature Troy and Sharpay. Yay, Troypay!

Review, even if you didn't really like how this ended up.


	11. The after party drama

Yesh, the last chapter. It makes me sad. Nothing exceptionally witty in this one, it just kinda wraps everything up. Have fun!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

There was a party at the pub for those who were indirectly involved with the production. Boyfriends and such. But everyone knew where the real party would be. No, not at your house. There are no Broadway parties at your house, unless you know fictitious characters who would gladly go to a house party, to which I say, "Lay off the Absinthe."

No. Here's the party:

There were roses. Lots of them. Troy Bolton looked forlornly at the bunch he had brought, and sized up the number on stage. Meh. They'd probably all go to Gabriella.

"Sharpay?" He tentatively entered her dressing room, where the _real_ party was.

"Troy! Come in! Wasn't I great? Brought the house _down_! Oh, but Gabriella did a great job, too! I believed for a second that she was really in love with Michael! Oh, sorry, I meant Erik. Can't ruin the magic for the audience. Anyway, isn't that ridiculous?" She rattled off quickly. She was still in her Curtain Call costume.

"Uh. Yeah. Great job."

"Hmm? Oh, Troy, you shouldn't have. These are beautiful." She deposited the bunch in the middle of her dressing room table.

"Anyway, come say hi! Here's Michael, and Ryan, you remember Ryan! Jordan—Jordan's the set director, weren't his sets beautiful?—Derek, the conductor, and Meredith, Meredith makes the _best_ cookies, Troy, you should try them some time, make you want to commit murder, they're so good—" She paused as Gabriella walked in. "Gabriella!"

The entrance would have been an awkward silence, had Sharpay not graciously begun cheering. There was something contagious about her cheer. It made you feel feverish and act accordingly and then want to pass it on. It was like a booster shot for Gabriella's self-esteem, in that it hurt a little, but would protect her for a while against other attacks.

At the same time, Troy slipped his hand into Sharpay's, and she squeezed, once, and he knew how hard it was for her to remain civil tonight.

She gripped his hand harder and she wound her way up to Gabriella. "Theater kisses." They exchanged the three air kisses that might or might not be theater. They were probably French, which was good enough. "I'm so glad you didn't _actually_ break a leg. That would have been horrible!"

Amanda came in. "Amanda! Great job with the make-up, Michael looked _hideous_." She reached over Gabriella to greet the make-up artist, who stood aside to reveal more people.

"Why is it that everyone _always_ converges in the smallest room?" She asked, laughing. Gabriella and Amanda were shooed into 'the smallest room,' where the word 'mingling' may be correctly applied.

Still holding Troy's hand, she managed to squeeze out of the doorway, past other party guests, and make it into the corridors.

"Oh god, I'm happy that's over." She looked carefully back into the brightly lit room. "I can't believe she actually wanted me to go up for her. I mean, I'd all but given up any hope of appearing on opening night, but for her to have worked so hard and then _want_ me to take her place...At least _someone_ came to her senses in time." She stopped mid-rant, and her mind took a different track. "I'm sorry, what did you want?"

"You. You are the most amazing, the most selfish, the most ridiculous woman I have ever known in my life."

A mischievous smile danced over her features. It did a solitary tango. "Thank you. Now, tell me, does being amazing and ravishingly beautiful have any good effect on your opinion of me?" She didn't bother batting her eyelashes.

"I love you."

"I love adoring fans." There were no sparks. There was no passionate melting or buckling. Certainly no swashing. But there was something. Something in the kiss, and it was a something good. "I'll consider you a _very_ adoring fan."

And the rest, as no one ever says any more, is history.

-end-

* * *

Okay, maybe it was a _bit_ amusing, for me at least. The dressing room line was a Jean Butler observation. There's also a slight knock on POTC, since I'm watching that right now.

This is really kinda depressing, for me. I had such a great time writing this. I hope you guys enjoyed it just as much.

I'm watching the Emmys, too, I'm allowed to be sappy.

Please review


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